Faster Than Wind

By Steve Pitt

Short-listed for the Manitoba Young Reader’s Choice Award, 2010

It is 1900, and 14-year-old Bertie McCross is a newspaper boy in downtown Toronto. Berties family has fallen on hard times and can use every penny he brings home from hawking newspapers on the frigid streets. However, in order to do that Bertie has to keep out of the clutches of the Kelly Gang, a family of slightly older Cabbagetown toughs who are shaking down "newsies."

On Christmas Eve, Bertie is almost cornered by the Kellys but is saved by Tommy Fry and Milwaukee Ed, who introduce Bertie to the thrills of iceboat racing on Lake Ontario. Soon Bertie is swept up in the fast and dangerous sport and meets a whole crew of new friends, including Isobel, a girl from a wealthy family with a mansion on Jarvis Street. The continued pursuit by the Kelly Gang, a plunge into freezing harbour water, and the clash of classes all lead up to a spine-tingling race to end all races.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dundurn
• Release date: Jan 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9781554885305

Steve Pitt

Stevie Pitt's first children's book, Rain Tonight: A Tale of Hurricane Hazel,was nominated for the Silver Birch, Red Cedar, and Rocky Mountain awards. He has been published in many magazines and newspapers, including Toronto Life, Canadian Family, the Globe and Mail, and the Toronto Star. Currently he lives in Toronto.

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Faster Than Wind

Faster Than Wind

Steve Pitt

Copyright © Steve Pitt, 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the

prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from

Access Copyright.

Editor: Michael Carroll

Design: Courtney Horner

Printer: Webcom

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Pitt, Steve, 1954-

Faster than wind: a novel / by Steve Pitt.

ISBN 978-1-55002-837-9

I. Title.

1     2     3     4     5       13     12     11     10     09

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts

Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the

Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development

Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the

Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program,

and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The

author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any

references or credits in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

Printed and bound in Canada.

www.dundurn.com

To Jean and Bertie,

may there always be a warm sun over your heads

and a fair wind on your beam wherever you are

Acknowledgements

For details about iceboat construction and racing, I am deeply indebted to John Sperr of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club; John Summers, chief curator of the Antique Boat Museum, Clayton, New York; Erich Schloemer, president of Midwest Rowing Ltd.; Deb Whitehorse, Four Lakes Ice Yacht Club in Wisconsin; and Richard Gerrard, registrar of Collections and Conservation Centre, Museum Services, City of Toronto. For sailing jargon, I thank my colleagues at the Saint James Town Sailing Club and apologize in advance for all the mistakes I likely made. For details about the CCM Russell automobile, I thank the Reverend Doug Wright of the United Church of Canada.

1

Donnybrook at the Market

December 24, 1906

Paper!

Porcupines!

Paper!

Rabbits! Quail and porcupines!

Paper!

Grouse, wild geese, ducks, swans, quail, moose, venison, and ... porcupines!

I lowered my newspaper and looked behind me. Has anyone ever actually bought a Christmas porcupine? I asked Mr. Crane.

His long nose immediately swivelled and pointed directly at me like a spear. I’m not out here hollering for my health! he said, nearly breaking my eardrums.

Mr. Crane must have been doing something right for his health. He had been hawking wild game from the same stall in Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market for sixty years. Barely five feet tall, he always stood ramrod straight, chest puffed out like the stuffed wild turkey perched on the roof of his stall. When he talked even to people two feet away, his voice almost knocked their hats off. His gruffness scared most of the other newspaper boys, but Mr. Crane and I got along fine. I never interfered with his customers, and at the end of the day I handed him all my unsold newspapers to wrap his meats in. Some days, in return, he gave me a small piece of meat to take home to my mother. On other days he offered good advice. Today was an advice day.

Run, Bertie! his voice boomed like a starting pistol.

My feet were moving even before I saw the freckle-faced tide closing in on me from three directions. It was the Kellys, a gang of East Side toughs who wanted to hurt me very much.

There were seven daily newspapers in Toronto. Each had their own army of newsboys. If you knew how to hustle and had a good location, there was money to be made. Unfortunately, if you knew how to hurt and intimidate newspaper boys, there was even more money to grab. The Kellys did the latter. If any kid tried to sell newspapers on the East Side of the city, the Kelly Gang surrounded him and demanded half his money. If he refused, they beat him up and took all his money. Although I was small for a fifteen-year-old, I figured I could beat almost any Kelly in a one-on-one fight except their leader Sean, alias Himself, who was huge for sixteen. But the Kellys never fought one-on-one. And as Sean always bragged with a smile, You fight one Kelly, you’re fighting all the Kellys.

Today it looked as if I was going to fight all of them. For the past three weeks I hadn’t been paying my rent. It wasn’t just a silly principle thing. I really needed the money.

I turned right and saw five Kellys surging toward me with their fists clenched. I turned left and spotted five more. Straight in front were at least ten with Himself leading the attack.

With Mr. Crane’s stall to my back, I was completely trapped. There was nothing to do but stand still and wait for the pounding to start. But then that funny thing happened again.

My brain liked to think it was the boss, but whenever my body got in trouble my hands and feet took over without asking. This had happened several times in my life already. For example, when I was six years old, a huge, angry dog charged me after it escaped from a dog catcher’s wagon. My mind completely froze, but my hands, without my brain having the simplest clue what they were up to, calmly raised the umbrella I was carrying for my mother and aimed it point first at the stampeding animal like a rifle. Just as the mad mutt was about to sink its teeth into me, my right thumb released the spring catch that held the umbrella shut. The contraption flew open with a loud snap, and the dog ran yelping down the street with its tail between its legs. The dog catcher managed to huff out Quick thinking, son! as he chased the canine. Smart thinking? My brain had nothing to do with it. It was all in the hands.

But today I was facing something much worse than a mad dog. It was Sean Kelly. With my brain watching in disbelief, my hands suddenly dropped my newspapers and reached behind me. I felt something soft and furry. When I glanced down, I had a dead porcupine in each hand. I was holding each one by a front leg so that their long, bushy tails nearly touched the ground by my feet. I had no idea what I was going to do with them until the first Kelly, Hammy, made his move. He was a huge, round lump of a kid who got his nickname because even in winter his face was always red and shiny like a freshly boiled ham.

Got ’em, Sean! Hammy roared in triumph as he lunged for me.

My left hand snapped up, and we both stood there amazed as two dozen black and white needles suddenly appeared in Hammy’s right hand and forearm. Awwwaww-waaaw! he keened in pain and horror.

Hughie Kelly, Sean’s brother, closed in on my right side. In an earlier era Hughie’s ancestors must have been hunted for their pelts, because he was the hairiest kid I had ever seen. Like his kin, Hughie was also dumber than a donkey cart full of doorknobs. He took one look at what I was gripping, stuck out his hand, and bellowed, Gimme those!

Two seconds later there were two Kellys screaming, Aww-waww-waaaw! The other gang members kept a wary distance, but I was still trapped.

The Kellys were well known in the market. All around me I could hear vendor stalls closing down. Doors slammed. Wooden screens rattled to the floor. Mr. Crane and the other vendors were shouting for the police, but it was unlikely the bulls would get here in time.

Judging by the relaxed smile on his face, Sean shared my opinion. We’re gonna kill you, McCross. You should have paid your rent when you had your chance.

Something tried to sneak up quietly on my right. Without taking my eyes off Sean, I flicked my right porcupine. A third voice joined the Aww-wawwwaaaw! chorus. One more and we’d have a barbershop quartet. Something moved to the left, and again I snapped a porcupine, but this time I missed. Even a Kelly could learn a new trick eventually.

At that point Sean’s massive freckled head split in a grin. Wrap your coats around your arms! he ordered. After half a minute or so, most of the Kellys figured out what he meant. By wrapping their heavy leather and wool winter coats around their arms, they could fend off my porcupines, which were beginning to look pretty bald, anyway.

One by one they followed Sean’s example. I watched them, feeling like one of those idiot Spartans my father had told me about — the three hundred who’d been tremendously outnumbered but who’d bravely held fast while they were annihilated by the archers of their enemies, the Persians. My father was always reading history books to me about brave people who stood their ground until they died and became famous. I preferred cheap westerns where the smart guys ran away and hid until the cavalry arrived and rescued them in the nick of time.

I didn’t hear any bugles, but without warning both of my boots were sliding straight backward.

Watch your head, Bertie! Mr. Crane cried as he dragged me by the seat of my trousers under the bottom half of his stall door. Ka-clunk! went the door as he kicked it shut in the faces of two Kellys trying to follow.

Over the screens! Sean commanded, and immediately there was a thundering din as a dozen Kelly hobnailed boots began fighting their awkward way up over the stall walls.

At the back Mr. Crane’s stall was connected to a small passageway that led to the aisle behind us. Go out that way and run like heck! he whispered to me. And give me those! He snatched back his porcupines.

I emerged out the back door just as the first Kellys came around the corner to the same aisle. Tipping over a delivery cart full of cheese wheels in their direction, I scrambled north.

My escape plan was to run down the main aisle of the market and out through the north doors to lose myself in the crowds of holiday shoppers on Front Street. It was a good scheme except for one thing. The merchants in the centre aisle were mostly bakers and confectioners. At this time of day their aisle was jammed with shoppers picking up last-minute Christmas orders.

I sidestepped a string of top-hatted carollers slowmarching through the market and singing Deck the Halls. It was the carollers who got decked as a flying wedge of Kellys crashed through their centre, trying to catch up to me. As carollers scattered like bowling pins, I weaved my way toward the north doors.

Sean must have guessed my plan, because he sent some of his boys dashing up the less-crowded aisles on either side to head me off before I could reach my destination, now only twenty yards away. Fortunately, a tin-eared Salvation Army cornet player was doing a fine job of driving shoppers away from his kettle near the doors. In the clear, finally, I actually thought I was going to make it. Then two women pushing massive baby buggies locked bumpers and began insisting that the other go first through the doors.

Blasted Canadians and their good manners! I thought. My exit was blocked and I was about to be killed because somebody wanted to be polite.

There was no way out — only up!

The area near the north doors was nicknamed Little Berlin because it was dominated by stalls of German sausage makers. This year, to celebrate Christmas in the German tradition, they had all chipped in and erected a huge spruce in the middle of the aisle. It was covered in flags, streamers, waxed fruit, whirligigs, and other hideous gewgaws. When I told my father about it, he said it was a Christmas tree, a tradition we had picked up from the British, who had gotten it from the Germans.

The tradition seemed like a really dumb idea to me. Who in his right mind wanted a dirty dead tree dragged inside his home just to hang fruit and tinsel on it until all the needles fell off and then have to haul it back out again? Some people even wired candles on them, lit them up, and then stood around with buckets of water ready to throw in case the tree caught fire. Rich people now put them up in their homes every Christmas, but I doubted the trees would ever catch on with sensible folk.

Anyway, with the Kellys closing in like a pack of freckled foxes, I did my best imitation of a Christmas squirrel. The bottom of the tree was anchored in a big wooden tub full of sand. For extra safety a piano wire was wrapped around the tree and connected to the ceiling near the top. I heard the wire go twang! like a banjo as soon as I started clawing my way up through the bottom branches.

Immediately below me I heard a whole lot of German cussing. At least I think it was cussing. It was hard